23 Steps
It was 23 steps from my truck to my house from the street side. I know this because I meticulously counted them. Let me back up and tell you the backstory that led up to me counting all those steps.
My daughter Rachel had a best friend. Her name was Stasia. Rachel and Stasia did everything together from the time they were 12 and 10 years old. Stasia’s father was one of my best friends and a leader in our church. At least a couple times a week, I would come home to find Rachel and Stasia hanging out in the kitchen or sitting upstairs in the family room, chatting up a storm about whatever girls talk about. Stasia got a car in her last year of high school, and this is where our story begins.
At that time, we lived in a home with two parking spots on the alley side of the house. When I came home, I would park my truck—my beautiful Ford F-150—in one of those spots. My wife, Karen, would park her car in whichever of the two parking spots was available. If both spots were occupied, this meant we would have to go around the block and park on the street side.
One day, I came home from the office, and both parking spots were taken. Stasia was in one of our spots for the third or fourth time. I marched up the stairs and said, “Stasia, can you do me a favor and start parking on the street side?” From the street side, you would walk up a driveway and go through two gates. Stasia said, “Sure, Steve.”
I thought that settled the problem, but a few days later, I pulled up to my spot only to see Stasia’s car in it. I drove around the block, parked my truck, walked up the driveway, opened and closed two gates, and walked 23 steps to our entryway. I was angry. When I walked into our kitchen, I could hear Rachel and Stasia talking upstairs. I marched upstairs—16 steps this time—and embarrassed Stasia, my daughter Rachel, and myself. I yelled at Stasia. I said, “Stasia, I thought I told you not to park in my spot! I had to drive around the block and come in from the street side. I shouldn't have to do that and blah, blah, blah!” When I was finished, both Stasia and Rachel had this shocked look on their faces. Having said my piece, I went downstairs to try to calm myself down.
After Stasia left, my daughter Rachel came downstairs and gave me an earful. She scolded me for my bad behavior. She really didn’t have to say much because I was already feeling the regret of my volcanic overreaction. I apologized to Rachel, and I assured her I would apologize to Stasia. A couple of days later, I had the opportunity to apologize to Stasia, and she graciously accepted my apology.
I did some soul-searching after that embarrassing episode. I thought to myself, Why did you make such a big deal out of 23 steps? The answer came to me in one word: entitlement. I felt entitled to my parking spot. I’m not saying I didn’t have a right to park in a spot I paid for, but I think the bigger issue was—why did I allow my sense of entitlement to turn me into a rude jerk?
Do you remember the WWJD movement? WWJD is a euphemism for What Would Jesus Do? Even though He was the Son of God, He didn’t have an entitlement attitude. Here’s what it says in Philippians 2:5-8 (MSG): "Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death…"
Jesus set the bar high.
I still have to fight that stinky entitlement attitude from time to time, but then I remember those 23 steps. And when I do, I know that I’d rather walk 23 steps any day than claim whatever it is I think I’m entitled to.
My question to you is, What are your 23 steps?
Stay close to Jesus,
Steve